Penance
by scullyseviltwin
Summary: I've had quite enough of your Catholic guilt, okay?


For sodelicateandi, because she hooked be up with some sweet graphics.

Written as track 5 for the Song Writing Ficathon over at my livejournal.

* * *

It's for the umpteenth time that she wonders when she truly began using the phrase, 'I'm too old for this.' As the scotch-bottom shelf, she isn't drinking for the taste-scrapes down her throat, the idiom replays itself once more.

'Too old for this...'

'...shit.'

And another acrid mouthful of alcohol is swallowed and allowed to settle in her stomach to battle with the stomach acid for supremacy.

This is the worst remedy for her current malady. Alcohol has never solved anything and every time she picks up the glass (a glass that was not made to hold scotch, but in a dive like this, what does she expect?) Olivia is remind of her mother, and how her breath smelled after a bender.

But she's not like her mother, not even a shade close and it's all the logic she needs to bring the glass to her lips once more and feel the burn.

This bar is two benders away from being classified as a dive, and even as she shoes stick to the floor and there's a man smoking a cigarette in the corner, Olivia feels as though that this place suits her mood exactly.

On its way out, that's what the atmosphere screams and that's just how she feels.

When he sidles up to her, her finger is running along the rim of the glass, pretending it's a razor. Don't press too hard now...

She's not drunk, she's warm though and it's the sort of alcohol-induced lethargy that can snap into anger at a given moment. Just the place she wants to be; the precipice.

There's no acknowledgment that he's arrived and that's just fine, because Elliot sits and orders his own bottom-shelf beverage and leans his elbows on the bar. Co-misery, onlookers might think but he's so pissed at her and she's so pissed at him that it's a wonder that they're sitting next to each other at all.

What they know that others don't: Elliot had taken a swing at a perp. Olivia had stopped him, held him back and somehow, the guy had taken the moment to swing around and connect his fist with her cheek.

A stumble, a curse, and Elliot had gotten him on the ground but not before his partner had a smart bruise purpling on her cheek.

"The fuck, Liv?" he huffed as he cuffed the man and hauled him up.

And she'd smiled, like that was what she'd been expecting all along.

"Worked it out, yet?" Elliot asks darkly, but he won't look at her. That's fine, because she won't look at him either. In twelve years, they know how to handle each other, but they don't so far as not to incense the other with rage. It's almost a game, how they play this.

Olivia rolls her eyes and presses the glass into her hand. "Nothing to work out," tastes like a lie on her tongue but that doesn't stop her from saying it. Because it'll piss him off, and for some reason she can't quite get to the bottom of, that's where she wants him to be, now.

A furtive glance is shot his way, an out-of-the-corner-of-her-eyes type of deal and she does it quickly enough that she catches a glance of his jaw clenching and unclenching. A rush runs through her, much like the thrill that she'd gotten after the fist had connected with her face.

Olivia is terrified.

Olivia's going to push this, though.

He speaks, and it's that 'fuck you' tone he takes when he's walking the line between logic and blackout rage. "I had him and you go and open yourself for... don't you _ever_ put yourself in danger like that again."

And it's not as though there was any real imminent threat. For chrissakes, she'd been shot at, tied up, drugged before and this perp had been half her weight, weaponless. And fuck Elliot for thinking she couldn't have handled him.

If she'd wanted to.

"I've had quite enough of your Catholic guilt, okay?" if she'd had anything left in her, Olivia might have said it out of malice but she's just tired. Not tired of him, and not tired of this constant strained interaction they seem to have but tired of fighting not to feel defeated of being terrified, not knowing what's going on in her own head.

There are things in life that are good, that are so absurdly good that she sometimes has trouble rationalizing why it always feels so heavy. She's good, he's good and together, they _do_ good. Yet there's a darkness that they've both been steeped in lately, and it's getting thicker and thicker.

Half a finger left in the glass and she swallows it all in one gulp, fights the urge to choke. There's too much force in the way she settles her glass and it betrays her. Her hand shakes, she shakes, her brain rattles and-

"No," Elliot grabs her wrist and settles his hand over hers. "You're not getting it." Now his voice is low, pained, she could swear he's choked up but with the way her head begins to swim with the closeness and alcohol, she shouldn't be swearing to anything.

"_Never_, again," he repeats with a finality that shatters her soul.

There are facets of Elliot she will never understand, but there's also the knowledge that she knows him better than anyone. And she knows him now, and she's not sure if she wants to.

It surprises her when she turns her hand over, slides her palm against his and he holds on, slides his fingers through and around and holds on for dear life. They don't look at one another but rather let the density of implications settle over them.

"Elliot," she whispers, and glances over. He's drinking his own drink with reckless abandon and doesn't let go of her hand and Olivia's head sways viciously, again. He orders another, and they just sit there, holding hands on a worn and weathered bar top and they don't' speak or move because they're both too terrified to shatter whatever has just managed to solidify.

It's moment, minutes, years before he pulls away from her. Olivia's cheek throbs a bit, her blood thinned, the possibility of taking any more painkillers unlikely. Just when she's about to bring her hand up to test the bruise, his hand is there, the other just moments before having thrown down enough to cover their tab.

"Never," he says once more, one _final_ time as his thumb skates over the inflamed area.

Olivia holds his gaze, meets his eyes hard and wonders just what the hell is going on, wonders if her stomach is flip-flopping from the booze or his closeness, wonders if she's willing to let go of that split second of hate she'd seen in his gaze as he slid the cuffs on the man.

Elliot steps closer to her, the bar dark enough to hide the emotion in their eyes,deserted enough to know that no one is going to both to look at them. "Please," comes his haggard breath, hand sliding down her cheek to settle around her neck. "Please," he says again and Olivia kisses him.

Or he kisses her.

The rough skin of his palm slides against her neck, fingers tangling up into her hair and she sighs. It's beautiful, what's happening. It's beautiful and it's a disaster but she doesn't stop it because there's no amount of willpower that can reign in fate.

Her hand finds his bicep and squeezes, a plea for more just as her other hand curls around his body, her thumb slipping between the waistband of his trousers and his oxford. She can't breathe, can't think, just presses her body against his and prays that this never ends, that she never has to think about what this means or what happens next.

Blood thrumming in her veins, feeling like she's struggling to make up for too much time a little too late.

Everything in her wars, it rages. What she wants now is nothing more than his hands and lips, it's what she needs (she can't pretend otherwise). The logical part of her knows that this is it, this is the end. And it all comes tumbling down, that part of her thinks.

But nothing can stop her from getting in the cab he hails when he manages to walk them outside. It's the light kind of dark, like, you're out too late, make haste back home before the sun catches you. And she wants to, wants to run home with him, yell at the cabbie to please, please step on it.

She's not sure what daylight will bring, but her resolve isn't ready for that. Seeing him in the daylight after the night they've already had...

It surprises her when they pull up in front of his apartment and how had she managed to miss the 'Queens' instead of 'Brooklyn'. Olivia has never been here, he's never invited her (until now) and it's strange, how appreciative she is of this. Elliot has been here, seventeen blocks from the house he bought for his family, living in solitude for four months.

Four months was all it had taken for him-for _them_- to fracture this way.

There are three flights of stairs, and beneath her feet, each board creaks heavily, as though to warn her, remind her, oh please stop her. She's never felt so reckless, nervous, nauseous, excited or sure. 'Starting now,' she thinks, but of what, she doesn't now.

It's just something that she's not thinking of anything 'ending' that shocks the hell out of her.

When they reach his door, he's shaking, just slightly. If it had been anyone else, they wouldn't have noticed, but this is Elliot and she's known him for going on forever and that's okay.

He doesn't look at her when he's fiddling with his keys and doesn't look at her when he finally finds the proper one and slides it in the lock. "Liv," he whispers, back to her and this is the make of break moment.

"Open the door, El," she replies and her voice is solid, louder than she'd intended but there isn't any avenue she can see for turning back at this point. Her hands come to rest on his shoulders and it's as though she's the one guiding him through the door.

It's a flurry of hands, some misplaces, and whispers and curses and neither of them dare to reach for a light switch.

His apartment is utterly sparse, but it has the making of a home. A smattering of photos of the family on the south wall in the living room, lamps that are just above dorm room decor, a decently large flat screen television. And in that moment she can envision him, the both of them, sitting on the second-hand couch watching the Jets.

An impossible image, but one that pulls at her heartstrings nonetheless.

Instead of focusing on the future, the what-might-be, she concentrates on kissing him, on trying to place his distinct, unforgettable flavor. Olivia focuses on the unintelligible sounds he makes and how he's moving over body like he can't get enough. Elliot's mouth on her neck, her shoulder and his hands pulling clothing this way and that, attempting to find the fastest route to the skin beneath.

She's never been more wet in her life and her knees are about to give out and this is exactly what she needs and more that she just wants to fall with him to the floor and get to the damned point.

"Yes," he says, loud enough to shock them both and before she knows it, she's laughing, tugging at the buttons of his wrinkled shirt. What's most brilliant is that he's smiling in return, like he can't believe this is happening.

Like a dozen different metaphors she can think of and simultaneously forget because Elliot's shirt is off and it's the first time that she's allowed to touch his bare skin and get a thrill. It's so warm, taut, and it moves languidly over the muscles beneath and Olivia dies a little. A gorgeous man, he's a gorgeous man and she's not one to objectify but it shocks her that a man of his age can be so positively solid.

It thrills her that she gets to touch him, it stutters her breath.

His hands on her hips, hers on his neck and their gazes meet.

Everything.

Stops.

It's not that the past fourteen years don't exist, haven't happened. It's more as though those fourteen years solidifies them there, in the moment.

"Yeah?" Elliot asks her, face flushed, his hair disheveled and he's breathing in gulps of air as though he's just swum the Atlantic.

Olivia confirms, breathing heavily herself. "Yeah."

It's a pact, they're in on this together.

Elliot swallows and gently-as-he-can removes the t-shirt she's wearing as she fusses with the button on her pants. Faster, faster, before either of them remembers that denial is the name of the game.

The process is something she doesn't think she'll remember, getting them both down to simply skin. His hands shake and she fumbles and it's not fluid or romantic and it doesn't feel like an essential part of the process. It's a 'get done and move on' step and when Olivia looks back on this, she'll forget how they ever came to be naked in the first place. Less complicated, embarrassing that way.

Elliot gazes at her body, steps back, takes it all in. In another world she might have been embarrassed, saved herself by taking the lead, cut off his staring session with deliberate, confident charge forward, taking control. But she's 'too damn old' for that, and so she lets him stare, takes a tiny sliver of pride in it.

Olivia stares too, lets her eyes roam of the hard plain of his chest, the strong crest of his shoulder, surprisingly cut stomach to his cock, which she's speculated on before, length, girth, and never quite landed on this particular image. Hard and long and... for a moment she wonders how this is going to work, how he came to be like this.

And then he moves forward and his lips find a breast and she forgets everything save for his name and thus she repeats it over and over before they falter and fall onto his mussed mattress.

Perhaps if they'd done this before, a different time, when they were both younger and filled with a sense of adventure and too much unchecked rage, he would have hitched her legs over his shoulders, would have tossed and turned her.

But the way he has her now, beneath him, Olivia thinks that yes, this is right, this is right because I can see his eyes and he can't away from me now.

_I can't get away from him._

He doesn't reach for a condom because she knows he doesn't had one; why would he hope he would have the occasion to use one, this soon? Olivia should mind, she should put a stop to this but at this point, she can't. Her legs are already hopelessly tangled with him and their chests are flushed and honestly, if he pulled away now, she might actually die.

Aside from that, there aren't any secrets between them. Olivia very well may know him as intrinsically as she knows herself and while that's a fact that scares her, it also make this... okay. This is all... just fine.

This isn't the most monumental thing that's happened to her.

Except that it is.

The simple fact remains, that when she boils it down to the basics, she's about to have sex with her best friend. They're about to have sex together, and this will both make and break their entire relationship. Balancing on a razor's edge, she thinks, is what they're trying to do and they need to be delicate, delicate, deli-oooh,

He's inside of her.

Olivia's eyes slam shut because it's all just too much. There's too much of him, everywhere and it is _just amazing_ and she can't believe this is happening and a thousand thoughts are slamming through her mind but she can't pay them any attention.

Because he's staring at her, not moving. He's inside of her, _inside of her_ and not moving.

"Liv, Olivia," his voice is strained and thick and it hurts her. "Lookatme." God, he's thrumming with energy, gritting his teeth, willing her to just meet his gaze. She bites her lip; this is so tenuous.

There's no rush and tumble, there's no hanging onto the crest, there's only languid movement and wonderment in a gaze that doesn't falter. Olivia's hands are on his back, her short nails digging crescent moons into the skin below his shoulders; she hangs on for dear life.

Elliot sweats and swears, moves his lips over the muscles in her neck, rests them on her jaw when he can't seem to find his way back to her lips.

And the way he moves, languidly but with purpose, with a strength she expected from him; Olivia won't be able to walk for days. She wonders how he'll react when he catches her shortening her strides, limping up stairs.

She wonders how he'll react at all.

"Liv," he manages again and she knows it's time. She feels the muscles in his back tense, and his legs shake and all she can do is smile and sigh as he angles his pelvis down, sliding deliberately against her.

Oh, it's a liquid earthquake and she's about to cry out but he slides his mouth over hers, their tongues sliding, fighting for dominance. The moment is flawless, even with its imperfections and as she comes down, she sighs into his mouth, a silent 'thank you.'

When he comes, Elliot fights the urge to close his eyes. She can see it in his face, the conflicting necessities. But she watches him, watches as his jaw sets, hears him grunt and presses upwards, gets as close to him as she possibly, physically can manage.

They stay like that for minutes, with his body draped across hers, breathing heavy but in time.

Olivia wonders, as her eyes drift from attempting to discern the exact hue of his skin to the lightening sky out the window, if this is just another amalgamation of his Catholic guilt.

And does it matter?

She shifts and he moves off of her, falls onto his back onto the mattress. Elliot slides a hand over his face, over his forehead, in the way he generally does when thinking "So what's next," or "What have I done?"

She doesn't question it, just lays and thinks.

Waits.

There are minutes to fill the space between them, random sounds from the streets, someone running water in his building. Elliot moves his hand across the bed to rest where her hip meets her torso.

Neither speak for a long, long time.

And when he does, it's simple.

"You have to go," he says, like he expects it, but his hand doesn't stray from where it rests on her hip.

"No," she replies, and they lay, watching the sun meander through the alleyways between buildings.


End file.
